


Yours Ever, Constance Culmington

by lirin



Category: And Then There Were None - Christie
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25344841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: One of the only leads in the Indian Island case requires a police inspector to trek all the way out to Syria.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Multifandom Drabble 2020





	Yours Ever, Constance Culmington

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



"Sorry to bother you, Lady Constance," the inspector said. He looked sorrier still to have had to travel all this way in order to bother her. Constance hadn't bothered to leave a forwarding address at that last hotel (how could she when she didn't know where she was going?), so she knew she couldn't have been easy to find. She only hoped that didn't make him suspect her more. There were ten dead, he said, and her name had arisen. She couldn't see why it would, though—they were in England, and she was all the way over in Syria.

* * *

"You must be mistaken, and someone must have been hidden on the island, or else managed to approach by boat," Constance said firmly, once the inspector had finished telling his wild tale of murder. "But why are you asking me? I could hardly have traveled all the way there over land and sea without attracting notice, and you say it would have been impossible for me to reach the island anyway."

"You're not a suspect, ma'am," he said. "We simply don't have any better leads, and so we must follow up on the few we have, no matter how poor."

* * *

"Would you mind signing your name?" the inspector asked, proffering a pen and paper. When she had finished, he produced a much-folded sheet to compare it to. "Have you ever seen this letter before?" he asked, holding it out.

"Why...Justice Wargrave! I haven't seen him in, oh, nearly a decade. No, I didn't write to him. I'm sure you can see, the signature looks nothing like mine."

"Indeed it doesn't, ma'am," he said. "I didn't think it would. Have you any idea who might have thought to use your name to lure him to an island?"

"None at all."

* * *

The inspector left eventually, not much better informed than he had been when he arrived. Constance watched him ride away.

Wargrave had seemed decent enough, but they said he had killed an innocent man, so she supposed his death was no great loss. 

But why had his murderer used her name? They had never been close; Wargrave might easily have declined her invitation. And who knew—besides her, and the judge himself—that they were even acquainted?

It was puzzling. But in the end, what did a murder in England matter here? Constance returned to her chair in the sun.


End file.
